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ank O'Hara 

Lunch poems / 
PS3529.H28 L8 

O'Hara, Frank. ^^^-Res. 


O'Hara, Frank 
Lunch Poems 



H2 8 

O'Hara, Frank. 

Lunch poems / Frank 0» Hara. San 
F^'anclsco : City Lights Books, cl964. 

74 p» ; 16 cm. (The Pocket poets 
series ; no. 19) 

#2355 DC $2.00. 

Perm. Res. : #10185 Gift $ . . 

I. Title 

17 SEP 91 

II. Se ri e s 






Frank O'Hara 


The Pocket Poets Series : Number 19 


O 1964 by Frank OHara 

^ Ninth printing: March 1984 

ISBN: 0-87286-035-3 

LC Card Number: 64-8689 

CITY LIGHTS BOOKS are edited by Lawrence Ferlinghetti & 
Nancy J. Peters and pubHshed at the City Lights Bookstore, 
261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, California 94133 



Alma ... 

On Rachmaninoff's Birthday 

Poem ... 

On the Way to the San Remo 

2 Poems from the Ohara Monogatari 

A Step Away from Them . . . 

Cambridge ... 

Poem ... 

Three Airs 

Image of the Buddha Preaching 

Song ... 

The Day Lady Died 




Personal Poem 

Adieu to Norman, Bon Jour to Joan 


Hotel particulier 


How To Get There 

A Little Travel Diary 

Five Poems ... 

Ave Maria ... 

Pistachio Tree at Chateau Noir 

At Kamin's Dance Bookshop 


Mary Desti's Ass 

St. Paul and All That 

and J 


Memoir of Sergei O 

Yesterday Down at the Canal 

Poem en forme de saw 

For the Chinese New Year & For Bill Berkson 

Poem ... 





to Joseph LeSueur 

Some of these poems have appeared previously in Yugen, Ever- 
green Review, Poetry, Locus Solus, The Beat Scene, Big Table, 
Signal, Nugget, The Floating Bear, C, The New American 
Poetry, and City Lights Journal, to all of whom the author and 
publisher offer their thanks. 


If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian 
pausing for a liver sausage sandwich in the Mayflower Shoppe, 
that angel seems to be leading the horse into Bergdorf's 
and I am naked as a table cloth, my nerves humming. 
Close to the fear of war and the stars which have disappeared. 
I have in my hands only 35c, it's so meaningless to eat ! 
and gusts of water spray over the basins of leaves 
like the hammers of a glass pianoforte. If I seem to you 
to have lavender lips under the leaves of the world, 

I must tighten my belt. 
It's like a locomotive on the march, the season 

of distress and clarity 
and my door is open to the evenings of midwinter's 
lightly falling snow over the newspapers. 
Clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear, trumpet 
of early afternoon ! in the foggy autumn. 
As they're putting up the Christmas trees on Park Avenue 
I shall see my daydreams walking by with dogs in blankets, 
put to some use before all those coloured lights come on ! 

But no more fountains and no more rain, 

and the stores stay open terribly late. 



"Est-elle almee? . . . aux premieres heures bleues 
Se detruira-t-elle comme les fleurs feues. . . /' 

— Rimbaud. 


The sun, perhaps three of them, one black one red, you know, 
and her dancing all the time, fanning the purple sky getting 
purple, her fancy white skin quite unoriental to the dirty child- 
ren's round eyes standing in circles munching muffins, the cock- 
roaches like nuggets half hid in the bran. Boy! how are you, 
Prester John ? the smile of the river, so searching, so enamelled. 


What mention of the King ? 
the spinning wheel still turns, 
the apples rot to the singing. 
Ale est e on winter sojourns 

is nice at Nice. Wander, 
my dear sacred Pontiff, do dare 
to murder minutely and ponder 
what is the bloody affair 

inside the heart of the weak 
dancer, whose one toe is worth 
inestimable, the gang, the cheek 
of it ! it's too dear, her birth 

amidst the acorns with nails 
stuck through them by passionate 

parents, castanets ! Caucasian tales ! 
their prodigality proportionate : 

"Sacred Heart, oh Heart so sick, 
make Detroit more wholly thine, 
all with greeds and scabs so thick 
that Judas Priest must make a sign." 

Thus he to bed and we to rise 

and Alma singing like a loon. 

Her dancing toenails in her eyes. 

Her pa was dead on the River Gaboon. 


Detroit was founded on the great near waterways next to Canada 
which was friendly and immediately gained for herself the appel- 
lation "the Detroit of Thermopylaes", a name which has stuck to 
this day wherever ballroom dancing is held in proper esteem. Let 
me remind you of that great wrist movement, the enjambement 
schizophrene, a particularly satisfying variation of which may be 
made by adding a little tomato paste. Great success. While in 
Detroit accused of starting the Chicago fire. Millions of roses 
from Russians. Alma had come a long way, she opened a jewelry 
shop, her name became a household word, she'd invented an 

How often she thought of her father ! the castle, the kitchen- 
garden, the hollihocks and the mill stream beyond curving gently 
as a parenthesis. Many a bitter tear was shed by her on the 
boards of this theatre as she pondered the inscrutable meagerness 
of divine Providence, always humming, always shifting a little, 
never missing a beat. She guested one season at the height of her 
nostalgia with the Metropolitan Opera Ballet in Salammbo; her 


father seemed very close in all that oriental splendor of bamboo 
and hotel palms and stale sweat and bracelets, an engagement of 
tears. In the snow, in her white fox fur wraps, how more beauti- 
ful than Mary Garden ! 


Onward to the West. *'Where I came from, 
where I'm going. Indian country." Gold. 
Oh say can you see Alma. The darling 
of Them. All her friends were artists. 
They alone have memories. They alone 
love flowers. They alone give parties 
and die. Poor Alma. They alone. 

She died, 
and it was as if all the jewels in the world 
had heaved a sigh. The seismograph 
at Fordham University registered, for once, 
a spiritual note. How like a sliver 
in her own short fat muscular foot. 
She loved the Western World, though 
there are some who say she isn't really dead. 



Quick ! a last poem before I go 

off my rocker. Oh Rachmaninoff ! 

Onset, Massachusetts. Is it the fig-newton 

playing the horn ? Thundering windows 

of hell, will your tubes ever break 

into powder ? Oh my palace of oranges, 

junk shop, staples, umber, basalt; 

I'm a child again when I was really 

miserable, a grope pizzicato. My pocket 

of rhinestone, yoyo, carpenter's pencil, 

amethyst, hypo, campaign button, 

is the room full of smoke ? Shit 

on the soup, let it burn. So it's back. 

You'll never be mentally sober. 




I watched an armory combing its bronze bricks 
and in the sky there were glistening rails of milk. 
Where had the swan gone, the one with the lame back ? 

Now mounting the steps 
I enter my new home full 
of grey radiators and glass 
ashtrays full of wool. 

Against the winter I must get a samovar 
embroidered with basil leaves and Ukranian mottos 
to the distant sound of wings, painfully anti-wind, 

a little bit of the blue 
summer air will come back 
as the steam chuckles in 
the monster's steamy attack 

and I'll be happy here and happy there, full 
of tea and tears. I don't suppose I'll ever get 
to Italy, but I have the terrible tundra at least. 

My new home will be full 
of wood, roots and the like, 
while I pace in a turtleneck 
sweater, repairing my bike. 

I watched the palisades shivering in the snow 

of my face, which had grown preternaturally pure. 

Once I destroyed a man's idea of himself to have him. 


If I'd had a samovar then 
I'd have made him tea 
and as hyacinths grow from 
a pot he would love me 

and my charming room of tea cosies full of dirt 
which is why I must travel, to collect the leaves. 
O my enormous piano, you are not like being outdoors 

though it is cold and you 
are made of fire and wood ! 
I lift your lid and mountains 
return, that I am good. 

The stars blink like a hairnet that was dropped 
on a seat and now it is lying in the alley behind 
the theater where my play is echoed by dying voices. 

I am really a woodcarver 
and my words are love 
which willfully parades in 
its room, refusing to move. 




The black ghinkos snarl their way up 

the moon growls at each bhnking window 

the apartment houses climb deafeningly into the purple 

A bat hisses northwards 

the perilous steps lead to a grate 

suddenly the heat is bearable 

The cross-eyed dog scratches a worn patch of pavement 

his right front leg is maimed in the shape of a V 

there's no trace of his nails on the street a woman cajoles 

She is very old and dirty 
she whistles her filthy hope 
that it will rain tonight 

Tlie 6th Avenue bus trunk-lumbers sideways 
it is full of fat people who cough as at a movie 
they eat each other's dandruff in the flickering glare 

The moon passes into clouds 
so hurt by the street lights 
of your glance oh my heart 

The act of love is also passing like a subway bison 
through the paper-littered arches of the express tracks 
the sailor sobers he feeds pennies to the peanut machines 

Though others are in the night 
far away lips upon a dusty armpit 
the nostrils are full of tears 


High fidelity reposed in a box a hand on the windowpane 
the sweet calm the violin strings tie a young man's hair 
the bright black eyes pin far away their smudged curiosity 

Yes you are foolish smoking 
the bars are for rabbits 
who wish to outlive the men 





My love is coming in a glass 
the blood of the Bourbons 

saxophone or cornet 
qu'importe ou? 

green of glass flowers dans le Kentucky 

and always the same handkerchief 
at the same nose of damask 

turning up my extravagant collar 
tossing my scarf about my neck 

the Baudelaire of Kyoto's never-ending pureness 
is he cracked in the head ? 


After a long trip to a shrine 
in wooden clogs so hard on the muscles 
the tea is bitter and the breasts are hard 
so much terrace for one evening 

there is no longer no ocean 

I don't see the ocean under niy stilts 

as I poke along 


hands on ankles feet on wrists 

naked in thought 

like a whip made from sheerest stockings 

the radio is on the cigarette is puffed upon 

by the pleasures of rolling in a bog 

some call the Milky Way 

in far-fetched Occidental lands above the trees 

where dwell the amusing skulls 




It's my lunch hour, so I go 

for a walk among the hum-colored 

cabs. First, down the sidewalk 

where laborers feed their dirty 

glistening torsos sandwiches 

and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets 

on. They protect them from falling 

bricks, I guess. Then onto the 

avenue where skirts are flipping 

above heels and blow up over 

grates. The sun is hot, but the 

cabs stir up the air. I look 

at bargains in wristwatches. There 

are cats playing in sawdust. 

to Times Square, where the sign 
blows smoke over my head, and higher 
the waterfall pours lightly. A 
Negro stands in a doorway with a 
toothpick, languorously agitating. 
A blonde chorus girl clicks : he 
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything 
suddenly honks : it is 12 :40 of 
a Thursday. 

Neon in daylight is a 
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would 
write, as are light bulbs in daylight. 
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S 
CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of 
Federico Fellini, e bell' attrice. 


And chocolate malted. A lady in 
foxes on such a day puts her poodle 
in a cab. 

There are several Puerto 
Ricans on the avenue today, which 
makes it beautiful and warm. First 
Bunny died, then John Latouche, 
then Jackson Pollock. But is the 
earth as full as life was full, of them? 
And one has eaten and one walks, 
past the magazines with nudes 
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and 
the Manhattan Storage Warehouse, 
which they'll soon tear down. I 
used to think they had the Armory 
Show there. 

A glass of papaya juice 
and back to work. My heart is in my 
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy. 




It is still raining and the yellow-green cotton fruit 

looks silly round a window giving out on winter trees 

with only three drab leaves left. The hot plate works, 

it is the sole heat on earth, and instant coffee. I 

put on my warm corduroy pants, a heavy maroon sweater, 

and wrap myself in my old maroon bathrobe. Just like Pasternak 

in Marburg (they say Italy and France are colder, but 

I'm sure that Germany's at least as cold as this) and, 

lacking the Master's inspiration, I may freeze to death 

before I can get out into the white rain. I could have left 

the window closed last night ? But that's where health 

comes from ! His breath from the Urals, drawing me into flame 

like a forgotten cigarette. Burn ! this is not negligible, 

being poetic, and not feeble, since it's sponsored by 

the greatest living Russian poet at incalculable cost. 

Across the street there is a house under construction, 

abandoned to the rain. Secretly, I shall go to work on it. 



Instant coffee with slightly sour cream 

in it, and a phone call to the beyond 

which doesn't seem to be coming any nearer. 

" Ah daddy, I wanna stay drunk many days " 

on the poetry of a new friend 

my life held precariously in the seeing 

hands of others, their and my impossibilities. 

Is this love, now that the first love 

has finally died, where there were no impossibilities ? 




to Norman Bluhm 

So many things in the air ! soot, 
elephant balls, a Chinese cloud 
which is entirely collapsed, a cat 
swung by its tail 

and the senses 
of the dead which are banging about 
inside my tired red eyes 


In the deeps there is a little bird 
and it only hums, it hums of fortitude 

and temperance, it is managing a foundry 

how firmly it must grasp things ! tear them 
out of the slime and then, alas ! it mischievously 

drops them into the cauldron of hideousness 

there is already a sunset naming 

the poplars which see only, watery, themselves 



Oh to be an angel (if there were any !), and go 

straight up into the sky and look around and then come down 

not to be covered with steel and aluminum 
glaringly ugly in the pure distances and clattering and 

buckling, wheezing 

but to be part of the treetops and the blueness, invisible, 
the iridescent darknesses beyond, 

silent, listening to 
the air becoming no air becoming air again 




I am very happy to be here at the Villa Hiigel 

and Prime Minister Nehru has asked me to greet the people of 

and to tell you how powerfully affected we in India 
have been by Germany's philosophy, traditions and mythology 
though our lucidity and our concentration on archetypes 
puts us in a class by ourself 

" for in this world of storm and stress " 
— 5,000 years of Indian art ! just think of it, oh Essen ! 
is this a calmer region of thought, " a reflection of the mind 
through the ages " ? 

Max Miiller, " primus inter pares " among 

remember our byword, Mokshamula, I rejoice in the fact of 900 


I deeply appreciate filling the gaps, oh Herr Doktor Heinrich 

Goetz ! 
and the research purring onward in Pakistan and Ceylon and 

soapstone, terracotta- Indus, terracotta-Maurya, terracotta Sunga, 
terracotta-Andhra, terracotta fragments famous Bharhut 

Kushana, Ghandara, Gupta, Hindu and Jain, Secco, Ajanta, 

Villa Hugel ! 

Anglo-German trade will prosper by Swansea-Mannheim 

waning now the West Wall by virtue of two rolls per capita 
and the flagship BERLIN is joining its "white fleet" on the Rhine 


though better schools and model cars are wanting, still still oh 

Nataraja dances on the dwarf 
and unlike their fathers 
Germany's highschool pupils love the mathematics 

which is hopeful of a new delay in terror 
I don't think 




Is it dirty 

does it look dirty 

that's what you think of in the city 

does it just seem dirty 

that's what you think of in the city 

you don't refuse to breathe do you 

someone comes along with a very bad character 
he seems attractive, is he really, yes. very 
he's attractive as his character is bad. is it. yes 

that's what you think of in the city 

run your finger along your no-moss mind 

that's not a thought that's soot 

and you take a lot of dirt off someone 

is the character less bad. no. it improves constantly 

you don't refuse to breathe do you 



It is 12 : 20 in New York a Friday 

three days after Bastille day, yes 

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine 

because I will get off the 4 : 19 in Easthampton 

at 7 : 15 and then go straight to dinner 

and I don't know the people who will feed me 

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun 

and have a hamburger and a malted and buy 

an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets 

in Ghana are doing these days 

I go on to the bank 
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) 
doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life 
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine 
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do 
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or 
Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Negres 
of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine 
after practically going to sleep with quandariness 

and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE 

Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and 

then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue 

and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and 

casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton 

of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it 

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of 

leaning on the John door in the 5 SPOT 

while she whispered a song along the keyboard 

to Mai Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing 




Wouldn't it be funny 

if The Finger had designed us 

to shit just once a week ? 

all week long we'd get fatter 

and fatter and then on Sunday morning 

while everyone's in church 

ploop ! 



Khrushchev is coming on the right day ! 

the cool graced light 
is pushed off the enormous glass piers by hard wind 
and everything is tossing, hurrying on up 

this country 
has everything but politesse, a Puerto Rican cab driver says 
and five different girls I see 

look like Piedie Gimbel 
v^ith her blonde hair tossing too, 

as she looked w^hen I pushed 
her little daughter on the swing on the lawn it was also windy 

last night we went to a movie and came out, 

lonesco is greater 
than Beckett, Vincent said, that's what I think, blueberry blintzes 
and Khrushchev was probably being carped at 

in Washington, no 

Vincent tells me about his mother's trip to Sweden 

Hans tells us 
about his father's life in Sweden, it sounds like Grace Hartigan's 
painting Sweden 

so I go home to bed and names drift through my 

Purgatorio Merchado, Gerhard Schwartz and Gaspar Gonzales, 
all unknown figures of the early morning as I go to work 

where does the evil of the year go 

when September takes New York 
and turns it into ozone stalagmites 


deposits of light 
so I get back up 
make coffee, and read Francois Villon, his life, so dark 

New York seems blinding and my tie is blowing up the street 
I wish it would blow off 

though it is cold and somewhat warms 

my neck 
as the train bears Khrushchev on to Pennsylvania Station 
and the light seems to be eternal 
and joy seems to be inexorable 
I am foolish enough always to find it in wind 



Ah Jean Dubuffet 

when you think of him 

doing his mihtary service in the Eiffel Tower 

as a meteorologist 

in 1922 

you know how wonderful the 20th Century 

can be 

and the gaited Iroquois on the girders 

fierce and unflinching-footed 

nude as they should be 

slightly empty 

like a Sonia Delaunay 

there is a parable of speed 

somewhere behind the Indians' eyes 

they invented the century with their horses 

and their fragile backs 

which are dark 

we owe a debt to the Iroquois 

and to Duke Ellington 

for playing in the buildings when they are built 

we don't do much ourselves 

but fuck and think 

of the haunting Metro 

and the one who didn't show up there 

while we were waiting to become part of our century 

just as you can't make a hat out of steel 

and still wear it 

who wears hats anyway 

it is our tribe's custom 

to beguile 


how are you feeling in ancient September 

I am feeling like a truck on a wet highway 

how can you 

you were made in the image of god 

I was not 

I was made in the image of a sissy truck-driver 

and Jean Dubuffet painting his cows 

"with a likeness burst in the memory" 

apart from love (don't say it) 

I am ashamed of my century 

for being so entertaining 

but I have to smile 




Now when I walk around at lunchtime 
I have only two charms in my pocket 
an old Roman coin Mike Kanemitsu gave me 
and a bolt-head that broke off a packing case 
when I was in Madrid the others never 
brought me too much luck though they did 
help keep me in New York against coercion 
but now I'm happy for a time and interested 

I walk through the luminous humidity 
passing the House of Seagram with its wet 
and its loungers and the construction to 
the left that closed the sidewalk if 
I ever get to be a construction worker 
I'd like to have a silver hat please 
and get to Moriarty's where I wait for 
LeRoi and hear who wants to be a mover and 
shaker the last five years my batting average 
is .016 that's that, and LeRoi comes in 
and tells me Miles Davis was clubbed 12 
times last night outside BIRDLAND by a cop 
a lady asks us for a nickel for a terrible 
disease but we don't give her one we 
don't like terrible diseases, then 


we go eat some fish and some ale it's 

cool but crowded we don't like Lionel Trilling 

we decide, we like Don Allen we don't like 

Henry James so much we like Herman Melville 

we don't want to be in the poets' walk in 

San Francisco even we just want to be rich 

and walk on girders in our silver hats 

I wonder if one person out of the 8,000,000 is 

thinking of me as I shake hands with LeRoi 

and buy a strap for my wristwatch and go 

back to work happy at the thought possibly so 




It is 12 : 10 in New York and I am wondering 

if I will finish this in time to meet Norman for lunch 

ah lunch ! I think I am going crazy 

what with my terrible hangover and the weekend coming up 

at excitement-prone Kenneth Koch's 

I wish I were staying in town and working on my poems 

at Joan's studio for a new book by Grove Press 

which they will probably not print 

but it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night 

wondering whether you are any good or not 

and the only decision you can make is that you did it 

yesterday I looked up the rue Fremicourt on a map 

and was happy to find it like a bird 

flying over Paris et ses environs 

which unfortunately did not include Seine-et-Oise 

which I don't know 
as well as a number of other things 
and Allen is back talking about god a lot 
and Peter is back not talking very much 
and Joe has a cold and is not coming to Kenneth's 
although he is coming to lunch with Norman 
I suspect he is making a distinction 
well, who isn't 

I wish I were reeling around Paris 

instead of reeling around New York 

I wish I weren't reeling at all 

it is Spring the ice has melted the Ricard is being poured 


we are all happy and young and toothless 

it is the same as old age 

the only thing to do is simply continue 

is that simple 

yes, it is simple because it is the only thing to do 

can you do it 

yes, you can because it is the only thing to do 

blue light over the Bois de Boulogne it continues 

the Seine continues 

the Louvre stays open it continues it hardly closes at all 

the Bar Americain continues to be French 

de Gaulle continues to be Algerian as does Camus 

Shirley Goldfarb continues to be Shirley Goldfarb 

and Jane Hazan continues to be Jane Freilicher (I think !) 

and Irving Sandler continues to be the balayeur des artistes 

and so do I (sometimes I think I'm "in love" with painting) 

and surely the Piscine Deligny continues to have water in it 

and the Flore continues to have tables and newspapers 

and people under them 
and surely we shall not continue to be unhappy 
we shall be happy 
but we shall continue to be ourselves everything 

continues to be possible 
Rene Char, Pierre Reverdy, Samuel Beckett it is possible isn't it 
I love Reverdy for saying yes, though I don't believe it 



515 Madison Avenue 

door to heaven ? portal i 

stopped realities and eternal licentiousness 1 

or at least the jungle of impossible eagerness \ 

your marble is bronze and your lianas elevator cables , 

swinging from the myth of ascending . 

I would join ; 

or declining the challenge of racial attractions 

they zing on (into the lynch, dear friends) 

while everywhere love is breathing draftily 

like a doorway linking 53rd with 54th 

the east-bound with the west-bound traffic by 8,000,000s 

o midtown tunnels and the tunnels, too, of Holland I 

where is the summit where all aims are clear 

the pin-point light upon a fear of lust 

as agony's needlework grows up around the unicorn 

and fences him for milk- and yoghurt-work 

when I see Gianni I know he's thinking of John Ericson 

playing the Rachmaninoff 2nd or Elizabeth Taylor 

taking sleeping-pills and Jane thinks of Manderley 

and Irkutsk while I cough lightly in the smog of desire 

and my eyes water achingly imitating the true blue 


a sight of Manahatta in the towering needle 
multi-faceted insight of the fiy in the stringless labyrinth 
Canada plans a higher place than the Empire State Building 
I am getting into a cab at 9th Street and 1st Avenue 
and the Negro driver tells me about a $120 apartment 
"where you can't walk across the floor after 10 at night 
not even to pee, cause it keeps them awake downstairs" 
no, I don't like that "well, I didn't take it" 
perfect in the hot humid morning on my way to work 
a little supper-club conversation for the mill of the gods 

you were there always and you know all about these things 

as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes 

it isn't enough to smile when you run the gauntlet 

you've got to spit like Niagara Falls on everybody or 

Victoria Falls or at least the beautiful urban fountains of Madrid 

as the Niger joins the Gulf of Guinea near the Menemsha Bar 

that is what you learn in the early morning passing 

Madison Avenue 
where you've never spent any time and stores eat up light 

I have always wanted to be near it 

though the day is long (and I don't mean Madison Avenue) 

lying in a hammock on St. Mark's Place sorting my poems 

in the rancid nourishment of this mountainous island 

they are coming and we holy ones must go 

is Tibet historically a part of China? as I historically 

belong to the enormous bliss of American death 



How exciting it is 

not to be at Port Lligat 
or learning Portuguese in Bilbao so you can go to Brazil 

Erik Satie made a great mistake learning Latin 
the Brise Marine wasn't written in Sanskrit, baby 

I had a teacher one whole summer who never told me anything 

and it was wonderful 

and then there is the Bibliotheque Nationale, cuspidors, 
glasses, anxiety 

you don't get crabs that way, 
and what you don't know will hurt somebody else 

how clear the air is, how low the moon, how flat the sun, 
et cetera, 

just so you don't coin a phrase that changes 
can be "rung" on 

like les neiges d'antan 
and that sort of thing (oops !), (roll me over) ! 

is this the hostel where the lazy and fun- loving 
start up the mountain? 




So the rain falls 

it drops all over the place 

and where it finds a little rock pool 

it fills it up with dirt 

and the com grows 

a green Bette Davis sits under it 

reading a volume of William Morris 

oh fertility ! beloved of the Western world 

you aren't so popular in China 

though they fuck too 

and do I really want a son 

to carry on my idiocy past the Homed Gates 

poor kid a staggering load 

yet it can happen casually 

and he lifts a little of the load each day 

as I become more and more idiotic 

and grows to be a strong strong man 

and one day carries as I die 

my final idiocy and the very gates 

into a future of his choice 

but what of William Morris 

what of you Million Worries 

what of Bette Davis in 




what of Hart Crane 

what of phonograph records and gin 

what of "what of" 

you are of me, that's what 

and that's the meaning of fertility 

hard and moist and moaning 




White the October air, no snow, easy to breathe 

beneath the sky, lies, Ues everywhere writhing and gasping 

clutching and tangUng, it is not easy to breathe 

hes building their tendrils into dim figures 

who disappear down corridors in west-side apartments 

into childhood's proof of being wanted, not abandoned, kidnapped 

betrayal staving off loneliness, I see the fog lunge in 

and hide it 

where are you? 

here I am on the sidewalk 
under the moonlike lamplight thinking how precious moss is 
so unique and greenly crushable if you can find it 
on the north side of the tree where the fog binds you 
and then, tearing apart into soft white lies, spreads its disease 
through the primal night of an everlasting winter 
which nevertheless has heat in tubes, west-side and east-side 
and its intricate individual pathways of white accompanied 
by the ringing of telephone bells beside which someone sits in 
silence denying their own number, never given out ! nameless 
like the sound of troika bells rushing past suffering 
in the first storm, it is snowing now, it is already too late 
the snow will go away, but nobody will be there 

police cordons for lying political dignitaries ringing too 
the world becomes a jangle 

from the index finger 
to the vast empty houses filled with people, their echoes 


of lies and the tendrils of fog trailing softly around their throats 
now the phone can be answered, nobody calling, only an echo 
all can confess to be home and waiting, all is the same 
and we drift into the clear sky enthralled by our disappointment 
never to be alone again 

never to be loved 
sailing through space : didn't I have you once for my self? 

West Side? 
for a couple of hours, but I am not that person 




Wending our way through the gambas, angulas, 
the merluzas that taste like the Sea Post on Sunday 
and the great quantities of huevos they take off 
Spanish Naval officers' uniforms and put on plates, 
and reach the gare de Francia in the gloaming 
with my ton of books and John's ton of clothes bought 
in a wild fit of enthusiasm in Madrid; all jumbled 
together like life is a Jumble Shop 

of the theatre 
in Spain they said nothing for foreigners 
and we head in our lovely 1st class coach, shifting 
and sagging, towards the northwest, while in other compartments 
Dietrich and Erich von Stroheim share a sandwich of chorizos 
and a bottle of Vichy Catalan, in the dining car 
the travelling gentleman with linear mustache and many 
many rings rolls his cigar around and drinks Martini y 
ginebra, and Lillian Gish rolls on over the gorges 
with a tear in her left front eye, comme Picasso, 
through the night through the night, longitudinous 
and affected with stars ; the riverbeds so far below look 
as a pig's tongue on a platter, and storms break over 
San Sebastian, 40 foot waves drench us pleasantly and we see 
a dead dog bloated as a fraise lolling beside the quai 
and slowly pulling out to sea 

to Irun and Biarritz 
we go, sapped of anxiety, and there for the first time 
since arriving in Barcelona I can freely shit 
and the surf is so high and the sun is so hot 
and it was all built yesterday as everything should be 


what a splendid country it is 

full of indecision and cognac 
and bikinis, sens plastiques (ugh ! hooray !); see the back 
of the head of Bill Berkson, aux Deux Magots, (awk !) it gleams 
like the moon through the smoke of the Renfe as we passed 
through the endless tunnels and the silver vistas 
of our quest for the rocher de la Vierge and salt spray 




Well now, hold on 

maybe I won't go to sleep at all 

and it'll be a beautiful white night 

or else I'll collapse 

completely from nerves and be calm 

as a rug or a bottle of pills 

or suddenly I'll be off Montauk 

swimming and loving it and not caring where 

an invitation to lunch 


when I only have 16 cents and 2 

packages of yoghurt 

there's a lesson in that, isn't there 

like in Chinese poetry when a leaf falls? 

hold off on the yoghurt till the very 

last, when everything may improve 

at the Rond-Point they were eating 

a oyster, but here 

we were dropping by sculptures 

and seeing some paintings 

and the smasheroo-grates of Cadoret 

and music by Varese, too 

well Adolph Gottlieb I guess you 


are the hero of this day 
along with venison and Bill 

I'll sleep on the yoghurt and dream of the Persian Gulf 

which I did it was wonderful 

to be in bed again and the knock 

on my door for once signified "hi there" 

and on the deafening walk 

through the ghettos where bombs have gone off lately 

left by subway violators 

I knew why I love taxis, yes 

subways are only fun when you're feeling sexy 

and who feels sexy after The Blue Angel 

well maybe a little bit 

I seem to be defying fate, or am I avoiding it ? 




Mothers of America 

let your kids go to the movies ! 
get them out of the house so they won't know what you're up to 
it's true that fresh air is good for the body 

but what about the soul 
that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images 
and when you grow old as grow old you must 

they won't hate you 
they won't criticise you they won't know 

they'll be in some glamorous country 
they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey 

they may even be grateful to you 

for their first sexual experience 
which only cost you a quarter 

and didn't upset the peaceful home 
they will know where candy bars come from 

and gratuitous bags of popcorn 
as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it's over 
with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the 

Heaven on Earth Bldg 
near the Williamsburg Bridge 

oh mothers you will have made the little tykes 
so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies 
they won't know the difference 

and if somebody does it'll be sheer gravy 
and they'll have been truly entertained either way 
instead of hanging around the yard 

or up in their room 

hating you 


prematurely since you won't have done anything horribly 

mean yet 
except keeping them from the darker joys 

it's unforgivable the latter 
so don't blame me if you won't take this advice 

and the family breaks up 
and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set 

movies you wouldn't let them see when they were young 




Beaucoup de musique classique et moderne Guillaume and not 

as one may imagine it sounds not in the ear 

what went was attributed to wandering aimlessly off 

what came arrived simply for itself and inflamed me 

yet I do not explain what exactly makes me so happy today 

any more than I can explain the unseasonal warmth 

of my unhabitual heart pumping vulgarly the blood 

of another I loved another and now my love is other 

my love is in the movies downstairs and yesterday 

bought ice cream and looked for a pigeon-menaced owl 

mais, Guillaume, ou es-tu, Guillaume, comme les musiques 

and like the set for Rigoletto like the set for Roma 
like so many sets one's heart is torn like Berman's 
spacious haunt where tenors walk in pumps and girls 
in great big hats or none at all "or perhaps he recorded 
the panorama of hills and valleys before the strangely 
naked" and rain is turning the set into a dumpling 

wherever I see a "while" I seem to lose a little time 
and gradually my feet dragging I slow down the damn bus 
it is because of you so I can watch you smile longer 
that's what the Spring is and the elbow of noon walks 
where did you go who did you see the children proclaim 
and they too gradually fill the sepulchre with dolls 
and the sepulchre jumps and jounces and turns pink with wrath 




to Vincent Warren 

Shade of Fanny Elssler ! I dreamt that you passed over me last 

night in sleep 
was it you who was asleep or was it me ? sweet shade 
shade shade shill spade agony freak 
geek you were not nor were you made of ribbons but of warm 

moving flesh & tulle 
you were twining your left leg around your right as if your 

right were me 
I've never felt so wide awake 
I seemed to be wearing tights entwined with your legs and a 

big sash over my crotch 
and a jewel in my left ear for luck 
(to help me balance) and you were pulling me toward the floor 

reaching for stars 
it seemed to me that I was warm at last 
and palpable not just a skein of lust dipped in the grand 

appreciation of yours 
where are you Fanny Elssler come back ! 




How funny you are today New York 

like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime 

and St. Bridget's steeple leaning a little to the left 

here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days 

(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still 

accepts me foolish and free 

all I want is a room up there 

and you in it 

and even the traffic halt so thick is a way 

for people to rub up against each other 

and when their surgical appliances lock 

they stay together 

for the rest of the day (what a day) 

I go by to check a slide and I say 

that painting's not so blue 

where's Lana Turner 

she's out eating 

and Garbo's backstage at the Met 

everyone's taking their coat off 

so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers 

and the park's full of dancers and their tights and shoes 

in little bags 

who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y 

why not 

the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won 

and in a sense we're all winning 

we're alive 


the apartment was vacated by a gay couple 

who moved to the country for fun 

they moved a day too soon 

even the stabbings are helping the population explosion 

though in the wrong country 

and all those liars have left the U N 

the Seagram Building's no longer rivalled in interest 

not that we need liquor (we just like it) 

and the little box is out on the sidewalk 

next to the delicatessen 

so the old man can sit on it and drink beer 

and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day 

while the sun is still shining 

oh god it's wonderful 

to get out of bed 

and drink too much coffee 

and smoke too many cigarettes 

and love you so much 




In Bayreuth once 

we were very good friends of the Wagners 

and I stepped in once 

for Isadora so perfectly 

she would never allow me to dance again 

that's the way it was in Bayreuth 

the way it was in Hackensack 

was different 

there one never did anything 

and everyone hated you anyway 

it was fun, it was clear 

you knew where you stood 

in Boston you were never really standing 

I was usually lying 

it was amusing to be lying all 

the time for everybody 

it was like exercise 

it means something to exercise 

in Norfolk Virginia 

it means you've been to bed with a Nigra 

well it is exercise 

the only difference is it's better than Boston 


I was walking along the street 
of Cincinnati 

and I met Kenneth Koch's mother 
fresh from the Istanbul Hilton 
she liked me and I liked her 
we both liked Istanbul 

then in Waukegan I met a furniture manufacturer 

and it wiped out all dreams of pleasantness from my mind 

it was like being pushed down hard 

on a chair 

it was like something horrible you hadn't expected 

which is the most horrible thing 

and in Singapore I got a dreadful 
disease it was amusing to have bumps 
except they went into my veins 
and rose to the surface like Vesuvius 
getting cured was like learning to smoke 

yet I always loved Baltimore 
the porches which hurt your ass 
no, they were the steps 
well you have a wet ass anyway 
if they'd only stop scrubbing 

and Frisco where I saw 

Toumanova "the baby ballerina" except 

she looked like a cow 

I didn't know the history of the ballet yet 

not that that taught me much 


now if you feel like you want to deal with 


you've really got something to handle 

it's like Times Square at midnight 

you don't know where you're going 

but you know 

and then in Harbin I knew 

how to behave it was glorious that 

was love sneaking up on me through the snow 

and I felt it was because of all 

the postcards and the smiles and kisses and the grunts 

that was love but I kept on traveling 



Totally abashed and smiling 

I walk in 
sit down and 
face the frigidaire 

it's April 

no May 

it's May 

such little things have to be established in morning 
after the big things of night 

do you want me to come ? when 
I think of all the things I've been thinking of I feel insane 
simply "life in Birmingham is hell" 

simply "you will miss me 
but that's good" 
when the tears of a whole generation are assembled 
they will only fill a coflfee cup 

just because they evaporate 
doesn't mean life has heat 

"this various dream of living" 
I am alive with you 

full of anxious pleasures and pleasurable anxiety 
hardness and softness 

listening while you talk and talking while you read 
I read what you read 

you do not read what I read 
which is right, I am the one with the curiosity 
you read for some mysterious reason 

I read simply because I am a writer 
the sun doesn't necessarily set, sometimes it just disappears 


when you're not here someone walks in and says 

there's no dancer in that bed" 

O the Polish summers ! those drafts ! 
those black and white teeth ! 
you never come when you say you'll come but on the other hand 

you do come 



My feet have never been comfortable 
since I pulled them out of the Black Sea 
and came to your foul country 
what fatal day did I dry them off for 
travel loathesome travel to a world 
even older than the one I grew up in 
what fatal day meanwhile back in France 
they were stumbling towards the Bastille 
and the Princesse de Lamballe was 
shuddering as shudderingly as I 
with a lot less to lose I still hated 
to move sedentary as a roach of Tiflis 
never again to go swimming in the nude 
publicly little did I know how 
awfulness could reach perfection abroad 
I even thought I would see a Red Indian 
all I saw was lipstick everything cov- 
ered with grass or shrouds pretty 
shrouds shot with silver and plasma 
even the chairs are upholstered to a 
smothering perfection of inanity 
and there are no chandeliers and there 
are no gates to the parks so you don't 
know whether you're going in them or 
coming out of them that's not relaxing 
and so you can't really walk all you can 
do is sit and drink coffee and brood 
over the lost leaves and refreshing scum 
of Georgia Georgia of my heritage 
and dismay meanwhile back in my old 


country they are renaming everything so 
I can't even tell any more which ballet 
company I am remembering with so much 
pain and the same thing has started 
here American Avenue Park Avenue South 
Avenue of Chester Conklin Binnie Barnes 
Boulevard Avenue of Toby Wing Barbara 
Nichols Street w here am I what is it 
I can't even find a pond small enough 
to drown in without being ostentatious 
you are ruining your awful country- and me 
it is not new to do this it is terribly 
democratic and ordinary and tired 



You say that everything is very simple and interesting 

it makes me feel very wistful, like reading a great Russian novel 

I am terribly bored 
sometimes it is like seeing a bad movie 
other days, more often, it's like having an acute disease of the 

god knows it has nothing to do with the heart 
nothing to do with people more interesting than myself 
yak yak 

that's an amusing thought 
how can anyone be more amusing than oneself 
how can anyone fail to be 
can I borrow your forty-five 
I only need one bullet preferably silver 
if you can't be interesting at least you can be a legend 
(but I hate all that crap) 




I ducked out of sight behind the saw-mill 

nobody saw me because of the falls the gates the sluice the 

tourist boats 
the children were trailing their fingers in the water 
and the swans, regal and smarty, were nipping their "little" 

I heard one swan remark "That was a good nip 
though they are not as interesting as sausages" and another 
reply "Nor as tasty as those peasants we got away from the 

elephant that time" 
but I didn't really care for conversation that day 
I wanted to be alone 

which is why I went to the mill in the first place 
now I am alone and hate it 

I don't want to just make boards for the rest of my life 
I'm distressed 

the water is very beautiful but you can't go into it 
because of the gunk 

and the dog is always rolling over, I like dogs on their "little" feet 
I think I may scamper off to Winnipeg to see Raymond 
but what'll happen to the mill 
I see the cobwebs collecting already 
and later those other webs, those awful predatory webs 
if I stay right here I will eventually get into the newspapers 
like Robert Frost 

willow trees, willow trees they remind me of Desdemona 
I'm so damned literary 
and at the same time the waters rushing past remind me of 

I'm so damned empty 
what is all this vessel shit anyway 
we are all rushing down the River Happy Times 


ducking poling bumping sinking and swimming 

and we arrive at the beach 

the chaff is sand 

alone as a tree bumping another tree in a storm 

that's not really being alone, is it, signed The Saw 




One or another 
Is lost, since we fall apart 
Endlessly, in one motion depart 
From each other. 
— D. H. Lawrence 

Behind New York there's a face 
and it's not Sibelius's with a cigar 
it was red it was strange and hateful 
and then I became a child again 
like a nadir or a zenith or a nudnik 

what do you think this is my youth 

and the aged future that is sweeping me away 

earless and gasless under the Sutton 

and Beekman Places towards a hellish rage 

it is there that face I fear under ramps 

it is perhaps the period that ends 

the problem as a proposition of days of days 

just an attack on the feelings that stay 

poised in the hurricane's center that 

eye through which only camels can pass 

but I do not mean that tenderness doesn't 
linger like a Paris afternoon or a wart 
something dumb and despicable that I love 
because it is silent oh what difference 
does it make me into some kind of space statistic 


a lot is buried under that smile 

a lot of sophistication gone down the drain 

to become the mesh of a mythical fish 

at which we never stare back never stare back 

where there is so much downright forgery 

under that I find it restful like a bush 
some people are outraged by cleanliness 
I hate the lack of smells myself and yet I stay 
it is better than being actually present 
and the stare can swim away into the past 

can adorn it with easy convictions rat 
cow tiger rabbit dragon snake horse sheep 
monkey rooster dog and pig "Flower Drum Song" 
so that nothing is vain not the gelded sand 
not the old spangled lotus not my fly 

which I have thought about but never really 
looked at well that's a certain orderliness 
of personality "if you're brought up Protestant 
enough a Catholic" oh shit on the beaches so 
what if I did look up your trunks and see it 


then the parallel becomes an eagle parade 
of Busby Berkeleyites marching marching half-toe 
I suppose it's the happiest moment in infinity 
because we're dissipated and tired and fond no 
I don't think psychoanalysis shrinks the spleen 


here we are and what the hell are we going to do 
with it we are going to blow it up like daddy did 
only us I really think we should go up for a change 
I'm tired of always going down what price glory 
it's one of those timeless priceless words like come 

well now how does your conscience feel about that 
would you rather explore tomorrow with a sponge 
there's no need to look for a target you're it 
like in childhood when the going was aimed at a 
sandwich it all depends on which three of us are there 

but here come the prophets with their loosening nails 
it is only as blue as the lighting under the piles 
I have something portentous to say to you but which 
of the papier-mache languages do you understand you 
don't dare to take it off paper much less put it on 

yes it is strange that everyone fucks and every- 
one mentions it and it's boring too that faded floor 
how many teeth have chewed a little piece of the lover's 
flesh how many teeth are there in the world it's like 
Harpo Marx smiling at a million pianos call that Africa 

call it New Guinea call it Poughkeepsie I guess 

it's love I guess the season of renunciation is at "hand" 

the final fatal hour of turpitude and logic demise 

is when you miss getting rid of something delouse 

is when you don't louse something up which way is the inn 



I'm looking for a million-dollar heart in a carton 

of frozen strawberries like the Swedes where is sunny England 

and those fields where they still-birth the wars why 

did they suddenly stop playing why is Venice a Summer 

Festival and not New York were you born in America 

the inscrutable passage of a lawn-mower punctuates 
the newly installed Muzack in the Shubert Theatre am I nuts 
or is this the happiest moment of my life who's arguing it's 
I mean 'tis lawd sakes it took daddy a long time to have 
that accident so Ant Grace could get completely into black 

didn't you know we was all going to be Zen Buddhists after 
what we did you sure don't know much about war-guilt 
or nothin and the peach trees continued to rejoice around 
the prick which was for once authorized by our Congress 
though inactive what if it had turned out to be a volcano 

that's a mulatto of another nationality of marble 
it's time for dessert I don't care what street this is 
you're not telling me to take a tour are you 
1 don't want to look at any fingernails or any toes 
I just want to go on being subtle and dead like life 

I'm not naturally so detached but I think 

they might send me up any minute so I try to be free 

you know we've all sinned a lot against science 

so we really ought to be available as an apple on a bough 

pleasant thought fresh air free love cross-pollenization 


oh oh god how I'd love to dream let alone sleep it's night 
the soft air wraps me like a swarm it's raining and I have 
a cold I am a real human being with real ascendancies 
and a certain amount of rapture what do you do with a kid 
like me if you don't eat me I'll have to eat myself 

it's a strange curse my "generation" has we're all 

like the flowers in the Agassiz Museum perpetually ardent 

don't touch me because when I tremble it makes a noise 

like a Chinese wind-bell it's that I'm seismographic is all 

and when a Jesuit has stared you down for ever after you clink 

I wonder if I've really scrutinized this experience like 
you're supposed to have if you can type there's not much 
soup left on my sleeve energy creativity guts ponderableness 
lent is coming in imponderableness "I'd like to die smiling" ugh 
and a very small tiptoe is crossing the threshold away 

whither Lumumba whither oh whither Gauguin 
I have often tried to say goodbye to strange fantoms I 
read about in the newspapers and have always succeeded 
though the ones at "home" are dependent on Dependable 
Laboratory and Sales Company on Pulaski Street strange 

I think it's goodbye to a lot of things like Christmas 

and the Mediterranean and halos and meteorites and villages 

full of damned children well it's goodbye then as in Strauss 

or some other desperately theatrical venture it's goodbye 

to lunch to love to evil things and to the ultimate good as "well" 


the strange career of a personality begins at five and ends 
forty minutes later in a fog the rest is just a lot of stranded 
ships honking their horns full of joy-seeking cadets in bloomers 
and beards it's okay with me but must they cheer while they honk 
it seems that breath could easily fill a balloon and drift away 

scaring the locusts in the straggling grey of living dumo 
exertions then the useful noise would come of doom of data 
turned to elegant decoration like a strangling prince once ordered 
no there is no precedent of history no history nobody came before 
nobody will ever come before and nobody ever was that man 

you will not die not knowing this is true this year 




Lana Turner has collapsed ! 

I was trotting along and suddenly 

it started raining and snowing 

and you said it was hailing 

but hailing hits you on the head 

hard so it was really snowing and 

raining and I was in such a hurry 

to meet you but the traffic 

was acting exactly like the sky 

and suddenly I see a headline 


there is no snow in Hollywood 

there is no rain in California 

I have been to lots of parties 

and acted perfectly disgraceful 

but I never actually collapsed 

oh Lana Turner we love you get up 




A Strange den or music room 

dream of Persian grass configured distilled 
first hardon milky mess 

the about-to-be 
dead surrounding the already surrounded folk- 
hero with a veil of automobile accidents 
broken cocktail glasses 

oh Sally 
is still acting the mise en scene of her 
great grandmother's embroidered graveyard 
while I 

my asiatic tendencies have taken me 
to the Baghdad of neurasthenia and 
false objectivity 

faint hope for a familial 
contrast for a far-reaching decadence 
which presupposes unnatural unselfishness 
your sweet yellow hair 

among the mosques 
the faint tribal twitch of your altered 
blue eyes 

when Canaan was reached you 
called me France we threw sand in our eyes 
and ran naked 

down the street of our awful 

when life is fantastic there 
is no chance for make-believe how lucky 
the French bourgeois pain 


could be if we 
were children again and ever^-thing uninteresting 
you never had a chance to be 

Emma Bovary- 
nor I Julien Sorel in that attic in the States 
and now 

I remember you only through American 
Folk Art opening near the Fonda del Sol 
where are you Sally with your practicality 
and bottles of fireflies 

blinking on 
and oflF for footlights 



{dedicated to the health of Allen Ginsberg) 

How do you like the music of Adolph 

Deutsch? I like 
it, I like it better than Max Steiner's. Take his 
score for Northern Pursuit, the Helmut Dantyne theme 
was . . . 

and then the window fell on my hand. Errol 
Flynn was skiing by. Down 

down down went the grim 
grey submarine under the "cold" ice. 

Helmut was 
safely ashore, on the ice. 

What dreams, what incredible 
fantasies of snow farts will this all lead to? 

don't know, I have stopped thinking like a sled dog. 

The main thing is to tell a story. 

It is almost 
very important. Imagine 

throwing away the avalanche 
so early in the movie. I am the only spy left 
in Canada, 

but just because I'm alone in the snow 
doesn't necessarily mean I'm a Nazi. 

Let's see, 
two aspirins a vitamin G tablet and some baking soda 
should do the trick, that's practically an 



Seltzer. Allen come out of the bathroom 

and take it. 
I think someone put butter on my skis instead 
of wax. 

Ouch. The leanto is falling over in the 
firs, and there is another fatter spy here. They 
didn't tell me they sent 

him. Well, that takes care 
of him, boy were those huskies hungry. 

are you feeling any better? Yes, I'm crazy about 
Helmut Dantyne 

but I'm glad that Canada will remain 
free. Just free, that's all, never argue with the movies. 



Antler. FACTORY (Pocket Poets n38) 

Artaud, Antonin. ANTHOLOGY 

Baudelaire, Charles. INTIMATE JOURNALS 



Brecht, Stefan. POEMS (Pocket Poets U36) 

Broughton, James. SEEING THE LIGHT 



Bukowski, Charles. NOTES OF A DIRTY OLD MAN 
Burroughs, William S. THE BURROUGHS FILE 
Burroughs, William S. ROOSEVELT AFTER 

Burroughs, W.S. Sc Allen Ginsberg. THE YAGE LETTERS 
Cassady, Neal. THE FIRST THIRD 
Codrescu, Andrei. IN AMERICA'S SHOES 

(Pocket Poets U8) 
David Neel, Alexandia. SECRET ORAL TEACHINGS IN 

Doolittle, Hilda. (H.D.) NOTES ON THOUGHT & VISION 
Duncan, Isadora. ISADORA SPEAKS 
Eberhardt, Isabelle. THE OBLIVION SEEKERS 

Ferlinghetti, Lawrence. PICTURES OF THE GONE WORLD 

(Pocket Poets UI) 
FREE SPIRITS: Annals of the Insurgent Imagination 


Ginsberg, Allen. THE FALL OF AMERICA (Pocket Poets UBO) 

Ginsberg, Allen. HOWL & OTHER POEMS (Pocket Poets M) 

Ginsberg, Allen. INDIAN JOURNALS 

Ginsberg. Allen. IRON HORSE 

Ginsberg, Allen. KADDISH if OTHER POEMS 

(Pocket Poets UH) 
Ginsberg, Allen. MIND BREATHS (Pocket Poets #55j 
Gnisberg, Allen. PLANET NEWS (Pocket Poets n23) 
Ginsberg, Allen. PLUTONIAN ODE (Pocket Poets U40) 
Ginsberg, Allen. REALITY SANDWICHES (Pocket Poets ni8) 
Hirschman, Jack. LYRIPOL (Pocket Poets n34) 
Horowitz, Michael. BIG LEAGUE POETS 
Kerouac, Jack. BOOK OF DREAMS 
Kerouac, Jack. SCATTERED POEMS (Pocket Poets n28) 
Lamantia, Philip. BECOMING VISIBLE (Pocket Poets U39) 
Lamantia, Philip. SELECTED POEMS (Pocket Poets U20) 
Laughlin, James. IN ANOTHER COUNTRY 
Lowrv, Malcolm. SELECTED POEMS (Pocket Poets UI7) 
Lucebert. NINE DUTCH POETS (Pocket Poets n42) 
Ludlow, Fitzhugh. THE HASHEESH EATER 
McDonough, Kave. ZELDA 
Moore, Daniel. BURNT HEART 
Mrabet,^ Mohammed.^M'HASHISH 
Miirguia, A. VOLCAN: Poems from Central America 
Newton, Huey &: Ericka Huggins. INSIGHTS & POEMS 
O'Haia, Frank. LUNCH POEMS (Pocket Poets ni9) 
Olson, Charles. CALL ME ISHMAEL 

VEGETABLE SONGS (Pocket Poets n37) 
Patchen, Kenneth. LOVE POEMS (Pocket Poets UI3) 
Patchen, Kenneth. POEMS OF HUMOR 6- PROTEST 

(Pocket Poets n3) 
Pickard, Tom. GUTTERSNIPE 

Poe, Edgar Allan. THE UNKNOWN FOE 
Prevert, Jacques. FAROLES (Focket Foets n9) 
Rosemont, Franklin. SURREALISM ir ITS 

Shepaid, Sam. FOOL FOR LOVE 
Snyder, Gary. THE OLD WAYS 
Solomon, Carl. MORE MISHAFS 
Svevo, Italo. JAMES JOYCE 

Upton, Charles. FANIC GRASS (Focket Foets U24) 
Voznesenskv, Andrei. DOGALYFSE (Focket Foets n29) 
Waldman, Anne. FAST SFEAKING WOMAN (Focket Foets U33) 
Waley, Arthur. THE NINE SONGS 
Yevtushenko, Yevgeni. RED CATS (Focket Foets ni6) 

Often this poet, strolling through the noisy 
splintered glare of a Manhattan noon, has 
paused at a sample Olivetti to type up thirty 
or forty lines of ruminations, or pondering 
more deeply has withdrawn to a darkened ware- 
or firehouse to limn his computed misunder- 
standings of the eternal questions of life, 
co-existence and depth, while never forgetting 
to eat Lunch his favorite meal. . . . 

ISBN: D-fl7Eflb-D35-3